Like Real People Do
by ScarlettSunshine
Summary: Hermione needs to let Fred go, and she tries, but the strangest things happen at night, and she won't let the opportunity to see him again slip through her fingers.


**A/N: This was written to the song "Like Real People Do" by Hozier. I'd like it if you'd listen to the song, and if you like it, continue to listen and replay as you read. I fell in love with it.**

She was forever clinging to the memories of him. She lay awake and tried to rekindle her senses, tried to remember exactly how he smelled, how his hands had felt in contact with her skin, tried to recreate the zing that ran through her at his touch. But nothing she could imagine was ever quite right to the real thing. And she was torturing herself trying to remember.

Her heart clenched painfully in her chest as she lay against cool sheets and her mind grappled to recall things just out of reach. The memories were wisps in her mind, floating away from her fingertips, travelling farther and farther away, so real and yet so intangible.

Hermione's hand, warm and small, wrapped around the gold locket settled between her breasts, hidden from the view of others.

Harry had once asked what the chain led to, innocently curious. Her honest and simple response then had been that it was a birthday gift. She hadn't bothered to pull it out and show him, and he hadn't been interested enough to question her further. Perhaps she should have explained then, why she wore it every day, from whom the gift had come. Maybe they would have understood. But she didn't.

And now it hung on her neck with the weight of a thousand stones. It anchored her to him in a way that was incomparable, and she felt it every second of every day she was without him.

It was time to let go.

She tossed the sheets back, shivering despite the humid heat of the summer air, and left her bed, careful not to wake Ginny, who slept on soundly just metres away. Her bare feet moved across the floor near silently, and she sidestepped the creaking floorboard just outside the door, until she reached the stairs.

She crept down them slowly, wincing at the single groan the wood emitted beneath her weight. She almost turned back.

It was only a single floor down though, and her foot was already poised above that last step, which she took with bated breath. Then she was out the back door, passing the garden. Her feet were wet as they brushed the dewy grass. Her nightshirt was blown back against her by the breeze; it raised goosebumps along her skin. Her hair, the untameable chestnut curls she sometimes loathed, but which he'd once called wildly sexy, flew behind her shoulders.

She briefly recalled his comment, and blushed just as fiercely as she had when it'd first left his lips. Though now, as the hot blood rushed to her cheeks, hot tears sprung to her eyes.

She rushed her way to the orchard, to where they'd spent those evenings talking, laughing, enjoying the silent company of one another. She picked a spot at the edge of the trees and knelt in the grass there, before a patch of dirt.

She began to dig, her hands carving out the earth, soil building beneath her fingernails. She dug a hole much larger than she needed so that she could dig deeply, and she did; it was wide enough to easily fit her whole fist and deep enough to come to just above her wrist.

As she lifted the chain from around her neck, her hands, marred with dirt, smudged her white collar. She swept her hair aside to get the necklace off, and closed it tightly in her hand once she had.

Tears began to fall, rolling down her cheeks and leaving splashes on her hand. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I just...I can't anymore. I can't. I'm so sorry." She ran the chain between her fingers until she reached the locket, a golden book that looked like an old tome. She opened it with a quiet click. She'd never gotten around to putting a picture inside of it, not having one small enough, so the inscription within it was visible. One easy word. Three simple letters. Y-O-U. A joke between the two of them. He had given it to her with a grin before she got on the train for her sixth year at Hogwarts and told her to open it on her birthday. She had, of course, obediently waited for her special day. When she opened it, it was in purple box, along with a note that read: "_I can read you like a book. A very good book_.".

She'd sent a thank-you note back, along with a return of his sentiments.

"All books, even the good ones," she said, "they come to an end."

She placed the locket in the hole, wept over it as she covered it with the loose dirt, and she pressed down gently with the palm of her hand. She waved a hand over the patch, and from it rose a strong stem and blossomed a single white flower.

She ran her fingers over the soft silk of the petals and continued to cry. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I can't do this anymore... I so badly wish you were here right now. But I can't wish that anymore. I can't keep wishing and pining after a man who...who's gone."

She lay down beside the swaying flower, looked to it with a soft sigh. Her bare legs bathed in the moonlight of the open orchard, and she went on crying, until she felt she had no tears left, and her breathing began to even out. Her fingers slid up the stem of the flower. "I love you," she said softly. "I always will. And I wish I had told you that."

Silence.

"And I wish...as stupid as it is, I wish I had kissed you." She blushed. "Before I left, Ron, and Harry, and everyone else or not, I should have kissed you. Just once. Just to know what it was like."

Silence.

"Ron and I are...over," she informed quietly. "Before we even started really. Maybe we never really started, to be honest. We talked about it." She drew a quiet breath. "It wasn't the way you thought. I just had to explain to him that what makes sense isn't always right." She smiled. "I borrowed that from you. In a way. You remember when you said...you said, 'What's right doesn't always make sense.' And we were right. So right. I wish I saw that sooner."

Silence.

"Fred," she said finally, "I know this is absolutely mental, but if there is any way you could possibly, just once more..."

A strong, sudden wind tore through the trees, rustling leaves, sweeping down over her. She sucked in a deep breath at the rush and took that as her answer.

"Yeah?"

She froze. She couldn't move. She felt paralyzed in place. Her mind went blank. Her eyes fell closed.

That voice.

George, she thought. It's just George. It must be George. It has to be George.

A voice she hardly heard often, true, but a voice that still _existed_ nonetheless.

"Hermione? What can I do for you?"

She opened her eyes, red-rimmed and glossy, and there he was. Staring down at her, grinning, and awaiting an answer.

"Fred?" she managed.

"I never figured out how you could tell the difference between us," he said. "Me and Georgie."

"I'll never tell," she replied slowly, stunned.

He chuckled, ran a hand through his ginger locks. "I did figure that," he said. "Okay." He slapped his palms against his trousers and lowered his long, lean form to lie beside her. He looked at her.

"Is that really you?" she asked.

The corner of his mouth pulled up in a lopsided smile. "Yep. The one and only," he said. "I mean, for now. I...I don't think I can stay."

"But you're...you're..." Her hand came up, dusted with dirt, and touched his cheek, feather-light. His skin was just slightly rough with stubble, but so very real beneath her fingertips. He turned towards her touch, and her hand pressed to his cheek, slid back around his ear, and then the back of her fingers skimmed down his sharp jawline. "I can't believe it's you," she breathed.

"I can't believe you buried the necklace I gave you." He laughed.

A stray tear slipped down her cheek, but she found herself laughing as well. "How can you joke at a time like this?" she asked.

"I'm not joking," he told her, "I put a lot of thought into that. We're digging it up before you leave."

Her smile wobbled. "Fred." Another tear escaped her eye.

"Ah, come on, Hermione," he said. He brushed the droplet away with a swipe of his thumb. "What can I do for you?"

She sniffed, shuffled closer and draped an arm across his waist. His arm came around her back; she felt that familiar zing of electricity run up her spine. She rested her head on his shoulder. Breathed in his scent. Cinnamon, earth, and clean soap. Her memories became vivid with all senses once more.

She inhaled deeply.

"Are you sniffing me?" he asked in amusement.

She sighed. "I don't ever want to forget you," she said. Her arm tightened around him and he sighed as well.

"Alright," he relented. "Sniff all you want."

Her laugh was little more than breath, but he smiled, pleased, nonetheless. The grass was soft and cool against their backs; the air was warm and heavy around them. They stared up at the stars, twinkling lightyears away, and remained silent for long moments, absorbed in each other and their little surreality.

"So," he said tentatively, "how is Georgie?"

She was afraid to answer. "He's..." She searched for the appropriate word. "...lost right now."

He nodded. "How long has it been?"

Her eyes closed and she felt his fingers in her hair as he played with her curls. "A year," she said, "and three months. Six days."

He cursed under his breath, drawn out and exhaling. "He's that torn up about it?" he asked.

She could hear the concern in his voice. "Wouldn't you be?" she countered softly.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you're right." He dragged a hand down his face. "Poor George. He's…he's not…I mean, he's still…on his feet. Right?"

"Of course," Hermione assured quickly. "Yeah. George…he's not in the best shape. He's been staying at the Burrow. With everyone else." She paused. "He's lost without you, and not really sure what to do with himself anymore," she admitted. "He's not the same George. He misses you. Desperately. And it's hard for him."

Hermione felt Fred's hand find hers by his side. His hand closed around hers and, joined, he rested them on his abdomen. He squeezed. Tingles travelled from her fingers to her heart and spread through every inch of her.

"How's everyone else?" he asked.

"They're doing well," Hermione said. "All things considered. Your mum's doing better."

"That's good."

They were quiet a moment, just the sound of their breathing and the breeze through the orchard.

"I like what you're wearing," he commented, chuckling.

"It's the middle of the night," she said with laugh, fingering the hem of the nightshirt. "I didn't exactly dress to impress."

"No shoes, I see," he noted.

"Again," she defended. "Middle of the night."

"And yet you're outside."

She shot him a mock glare.

"And you've got dirt all over you," he added. "Are you sure you're Hermione Granger?"

She laughed, shaking her head against him. "I'm not really sure of anything anymore," she said.

He took her hands, held them together in his, and when he let go, they were dirt-free, soft and clean.

"Impressive," she said.

"Thank you." He kissed her temple and pulled her in snugly against his side. "So," he began, "what have I missed?"

They talked for hours.

They laughed, and talked, and caught up on...everything. She cried sometimes and, when that would happen, Fred hushed her, held her closer, and teasingly told her she was wasting his precious time. It seemed to work. She'd laugh, shake her head, and then go on with her story. They reminisced. It was almost as it was before.

As the hours wore on, she began to grow drowsier. Fred was whispering about childhood memories, the sky was at its darkest, but it would soon begin to glow with the incipient dawn. Her eyelids were heavy, her limbs had gone numb, and she was hardly listening anymore, just focusing on the low pitch of his voice, the way his chest moved under their hands, the solidity of him by her side.

The light began on the horizon, a thin strip of light in the darkness, glowing orange, then a touch yellow, barely hinting at the blue sky to come. It spread outwards, brilliantly bright, so slowly that they didn't realize it at first. It still felt like all the time in the world. Like they were the only two people on earth. It was so silent.

But he felt a pull. She was drifting away again. Or maybe he was the one drifting. Though not yet physical, he could feel the distance growing, taking them apart, and he knew this was it.

"Hermione," he said.

She was nearly asleep then. He shook her gently. "Hermione, wake up."

"I'm awake," she murmured.

He sighed heavily. "I have to go," he said finally.

She sat up. The tears were back. She was trembling. "No," she said. "No, you can't. Fred, please, not again. Fred, you have to stay. No. Not again. You can't…please, Fred, don't…" She sniffed, crying earnestly now, unable to help herself. She grappled for him as he got to his feet, and he held her up in his arms as she began to sob into his chest. She was standing, but just barely, and if he let go, she would collapse. "Fred, please," she begged. "Don't go. You can't go…Please." The sound of her heart breaking came through her voice. She held fast to him.

"Hermione," he said gently. "I can't stay. You know I can't stay." He shook his head. "No matter how much I want to."

"Fred," she whispered.

"Promise me something."

"Anything," she replied.

"Take care of George for me."

"What?"

"Take care of George for me," he said again. "If anyone can make him even half the bloke he was…it's you." He cradled her to him, murmuring the words to her. "Take care of him. He'll take care of you, too."

She swallowed thickly and tried to manage some sound in her voice. "I promise."

Fred nodded, rocking from foot to foot, trying to soothe her. Bring her back to him. "Make him forget me a bit," he said.

"I'll try," she vowed.

"But don't _you_ forget me," he ordered, urgently, imploringly. "Okay?"

"Never."

He paused, swallowed a lump himself. "But I need you to let me go," he told her.

"Fred," she began.

His hands ran over her hair and down her back as she tried to pull away to look at him. "Don't forget me," he said again. "Just let me go. You won't think about me so much anymore. But you'll remember me, okay?"

"Okay," she agreed.

He seemed unsure whether or not to say what was on his mind next. "When you see George," he started.

She shook her head. "I could always tell the difference," she reminded.

He let out a long breath. "Okay," he said. "So." He stepped back from her a bit, held her shoulders and took a good look at her. "You never answered me." He wiped her tears away and tucked the curls back from her face. "You asked me here," he said. "What can I do for you?"

She drew in a shaky breath and glanced at the horizon. The light was slowly coming through the trees. "Kiss me," she said.

"Yeah?" he asked.

She nodded, licked her lips nervously.

He closed the distance between them, took her face in his hands, and swiftly brought his lips to hers. They met in what could only be described as a kiss that stopped the world. Nothing moved but them. His lips on hers. Her heart thrumming in her chest. His fingers in her hair. For a moment, it was as though even dawn had taken pause.

The jolt of electricity that went through her—it brought her back to life. It made her feel revived. It was as though she'd been drowning, sinking deeper and deeper, falling to unconsciousness, and she'd suddenly broken surface. It was her first gasp of air. It both filled her lungs and took her breath away. Made her heart skip that ever clichéd beat and pound a million times a minute.

If only it could do the same to him.

When he finally pulled away, she was flushed. "How was that?" he whispered, forehead bent to hers and breath ghosting over her lips.

"Perfect," she breathed.

"Good." He brushed his lips to hers once more. "I love you, Hermione."

"I love you, too," she said. "I love you, Fred."

He smiled. "How long I've hoped to hear that." He looked out at the brightening sky. "We have to go." He took her hands and turned her to head back the way she'd come, and then he moved to stand behind her.

She turned to look at him. He shook his head, faced her forward. "Close your eyes."

She did, as much as she didn't want to, and felt his lips press to hers once more. The air moved around her. His voice sounded over her shoulder.

"Good…goodnight, Hermione."

* * *

"Hermione? Hermione, come on, get up."

Her eyes blinked open. It was almost painful. She was so tired.

Ginny was shaking her shoulder. "Come on," she said. "Breakfast is ready."

Hermione nodded, unable to speak, and Ginny seemed satisfied to get a response. "Okay," she told her, "I'll see you downstairs then. Everyone's already down there." Ginny left the room, closing the door behind her, and Hermione sat up, stretched out her back.

Something cool moved against her skin at the motion. Something much too familiar.

Her hand came up to her neck, finding the chain automatically. She pulled it from her shirt and looked down. A book. She opened it. _You_. Just like always.

She shook her head, her fingers running over her lips.

It seemed impossible. But also impossibly real.

Her unsure and distracted entrance to the kitchen drew the attention of everyone in the room.

"Alright, Hermione?" Ron asked.

She nodded dumbly and took a seat at the table. Harry filled her plate for her when she made no move to do it herself.

George looked over at her curiously. "Hermione?" he said.

She jumped, her attention snapping over to him. She couldn't remember when he'd last addressed her, or when he'd last spoken any more than a few words at a time. Now he did. "You have…dirt, or something, on your collar. Just there," he said. He pointed at the smudge and she pulled at the garment to see for herself. There it was. The most perfect imperfection against her white shirt.

"Late-night gardening?" he asked.

Her mouth opened wordlessly for a second, not knowing how to respond. She smiled. "Thought I'd plant some roses," she said finally.

He cracked the smallest of smiles. "I'm sure they're beautiful."

* * *

**A/N: I've never written anything like this I don't think. But I felt impelled. Please share all and any thoughts**

**Thanks for reading!**

**Anyways,**

**Scarlett**


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